"Dear Mom: Let's Break the Cycle of Body Hatred"

Kasey Edwards , an Australian author known for addressing topics such as self-esteem, body image, and motherhood, wrote a text that has resonated with millions of people around the world. In this story, Kasey shares the words of a daughter to her mother: “When I grow up, I’m going to be just like you… fat, ugly, and hideous.”

This powerful phrase is not only moving, but also invites us to reflect on the impact our own perceptions and comments have on the self-esteem of younger generations.

The article, which has been shared in more than eleven countries and read by more than five million people, is a profound reminder of how self-love and acceptance begin at home. We invite you to read it, reflect on its message, and share it with those you love most.

"Dear Mom:

I was seven years old when I discovered you were fat, ugly, and hideous. Up until that moment, I had believed you to be beautiful, in every sense of the word. I remember flipping through old photo albums and looking at pictures of you standing on the deck of a ship. Your white strapless swimsuit looked so glamorous, like a movie star's. Every chance I got, I'd pull out that wonderful white suit hidden in your bottom drawer and imagine a time when I'd be big enough to wear it; when I'd be just like you.

But all that changed when, one night, we were getting ready for a party and you said to me, "Look at you, so thin, beautiful, and charming. And look at me: fat, ugly, and horrible."

At first, I didn't understand what you meant. "You're not fat," I said, earnestly and innocently, and you replied, "Yes, I am, darling. I've always been fat, even when I was a child."

In the days that followed, I had some painful revelations that have shaped my entire life. I learned that:

1. You must be fat, because mothers don't lie.

2. Being fat is being ugly and horrible.

3. When I grow up, I'll be just like you, so I'll also be fat, ugly, and horrible.

Years later, I looked back on this conversation and the hundreds that followed, and cursed you for feeling so unattractive, insecure, and unworthy. Because, as my first and most influential role model, you taught me to believe the same things about myself. With every grimace you gave your reflection in the mirror, every new miracle diet that was going to change your life, and every guilty spoonful of "Oh, I really shouldn't," I learned that women should be thin to be valid and worthy. Girls should deprive themselves because their greatest contribution to the world is their physical beauty.

Like you, I've spent my entire life feeling fat. When did "being fat" become a feeling? And because I believed I was fat, I also knew I was worthless.

But now that I'm older, and a mother myself, I know that blaming you for my body hatred isn't helpful or fair. I now understand that you, too, are a product of a long and rich heritage of women who were taught to despise themselves.

Look at the example your grandmother gave you. Despite being what could only be described as "elegant and slim," she dieted every day of her life until she died at 79. She even wore makeup to get the mail, for fear that someone would see her unpainted face.

I remember her "compassionate" response when you announced that Dad had left you for another woman. Her first comment was, "I don't understand why he left you. You take care of yourself, you wear lipstick. You're overweight, but not that much."

Before Dad left, he offered no solace for your body image torment either. "Jesus, Jan," I heard him tell you. "It's not that hard. Energy in versus energy out. If you want to lose weight, you just have to eat less." That night at dinner, I watched as you implemented Dad's weight-loss "cure." You served chow mein for dinner. Everyone had their food on a large plate, except for you. Yours was on a tiny bread and butter plate. As you sat down to that pathetic helping of ground beef, silent tears streamed down your face. I said nothing. Not even when your shoulders began to shake with your anguish. We all ate in silence. No one comforted you. No one told you to stop being ridiculous and have a real plate. No one told you that you were already loved and that you were enough. Your accomplishments and worth—as a special needs teacher and devoted mother of three—paled in comparison to the inches you couldn't lose from your waistline.

It broke my heart to witness your despair, and I regret not having rushed to your defense. I'd already learned it was your fault you were fat. I'd even heard Dad describe losing weight as a "simple" process, and yet you couldn't manage it. The lesson: you didn't deserve food, and you certainly didn't deserve sympathy.

But I was wrong, Mom. Now I understand what it's like to grow up in a society that says women's beauty is the most important thing, while simultaneously defining a perpetually unattainable beauty standard. I also know how painful it is to internalize those messages. We've become our own jailers, inflicting punishments on ourselves for not measuring up. No one is crueler to us than we are.

But this madness has to end, Mom. It ends with you, it ends with me, and it ends now. We deserve better: better than allowing our days to be ruined by negative thoughts about our bodies, wishing we were different. And it's not just about you and me anymore. It's about Violet too. Your granddaughter is only three years old, and I don't want body hatred to take root in her, strangling her happiness, confidence, and potential. I don't want Violet to believe that her beauty is her greatest asset, that it will define her value in the world. When Violet looks to us to learn how to be a woman, we must be the best role models we can. We must show her, with our words and actions, that women are enough just as they are. And for her to believe it, we must believe it ourselves.

The older we get, the more loved ones we lose to accidents and illnesses. Their passing is always tragic and all too soon. Sometimes I think about what those people—and those who loved them—would give for more time in a healthy body. The size of that body's thighs or the lines on its face wouldn't matter. It would be alive, and therefore, it would be perfect.

Your body is perfect too. It allows you to light up a room with your smile and infect everyone with your laughter. It gives you arms to wrap around Violet and cuddle her until she laughs. Every moment we spend worrying about our physical "imperfections" is a wasted moment, a precious fragment of life we'll never get back.

Let's honor and respect our bodies for what they do instead of despising them for how they look. Let's focus on living healthy, active lives, letting our weight adjust naturally, and consign our body hatred to the past, where it belongs.

When I looked at that photo of you in that white bathing suit so many years ago, my young, innocent eyes saw the truth. I saw unconditional love, beauty, and wisdom. I saw my mom.

With love,

Kasey"